


Just My Color

by faeleverte



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: BAMF Phil Coulson, Gen, LSV, Suit abuse, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you don't have to leave your clothes lying around for tragedies to occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just My Color

“No, Director,” Special Agent Coulson said into his phone, “I don’t believe I will make it up there that soon. I am going to have to find a change of clothing first, no matter what else happens... Yes, sir, I am aware that... No, no, I assure you, I have no intention of... Yessir... Okay. Yessir... I’m sure you do regret that. I suspect you will have more regrets before the day is over... Yes, Director... As soon as I am on the ground.”

Coulson slammed the phone down onto the seat he refused to sit in as soon as the line went dead.

“Goddamnit, Barton,” he snapped peevishly, swatting the other’s hand away from his thigh. “Can you please get out of my skirt while I’m talking to my boss, at the very least?”

Natasha bit her lip and turned to stare back through the window at the clouds below, trying desperately not to laugh.

***

There was a lightness to being on a SHIELD mission with only his own two agents. While he enjoyed assignments with the Avengers (please let no one ever know how much he enjoyed working with the Avengers), Coulson was relieved to be with Agents Romanov and Barton instead of Black Widow and Hawkeye. This was his team, his core family, what kept his world ticking and functioning and making sense. They were a set, a unit, a single entity with three sets of arms and eyes and legs. And this was a good mission, reconnaissance only, just creep in, collect the information, hang out to make sure they had not been made, and get back out. Coulson had packed the cards, certain that Clint had the homemade salty snacks that they all adored and that Natasha’s duffle held quality vodka. It would be almost like a vacation.

Coulson leaned back in his seat, glad for a trip on a proper jet where his sleek black suit did not look out of place. Clint was several rows behind him on the opposite side, looking like a scruffy rock god in his jeans and too-tight t-shirt, his battered boots and his mirrored sunglasses. Well, he was supposed to be several rows behind, but he seemed to spend all his time walking back and forth to the restroom, flexing his buttocks on the way up the plane and his chest on the way back. The corner of Coulson’s lips twitched in a subtle smile at his retreating back, heading up for the seventh time in the last two hours. 

Four rows ahead of Coulson, on the other side of the aisle, Natasha flipped her hair, accidentally catching Clint’s hip with her elbow. Coulson’s smirk turned to a snort as Clint went down. There was a torrent of apologetic Russian, and Clint was back on his feet, looking much less cocky. Instead of continuing to the restroom, he turned to slink back to his seat. Coulson did not look up, but he did wink as Clint shuffled past. 

This was going to be perfect.

***

“Agent Coulson,” Fury said, his voice hovering somewhere between bewilderment and anger. “Can you please explain to me why you are wearing a lace nightie. Or, more correctly, will you please explain to me why you are ONLY wearing a lace nightie?”

“No, sir,” Coulson replied, his face calm, bored. “I don’t know that I can. However, I would like to get through this debrief as quickly as possible. My knees are cold, sir.”

***

The first fourteen hours of the mission went exactly according to plan. That was when Coulson started to worry: missions never went according to plan. Never. 

“The nest is perfect,” Clint’s voice said over the comm. “I can see Natasha clearly and...”

The pause made Coulson sigh, whether with fear, resignation, or relief, Clint could not say.

“Time for all hell to break loose?” Coulson asked lightly. There was no answer. “Barton, I need to hear your voice.”

“Yessir,” Clint answered. “Something closely resembling hell has just been released in the building. Natasha is taking fire. Was taking fire. She appears to have dealt with it. There is another line of hostiles in her path. Should I clear them out?”

“Of course,” Coulson replied calmly. “Barton, if you have the shot, take it.”

“I have the shot, sir,” Clint said, and Coulson could hear the impish grin in his voice.

“I think not,” a strange voice said over the comm.

Clint yelped and began saying “What the fu...” and then the line went dead.

***

“Were you still properly clothed at the time you lost your agents, Agent Coulson?” Fury asked. 

A small line appeared between Coulson’s brows, and a muscle jumped in his temple. “Yes, sir. Please assume I stayed professional and acted with decorum until I was completely incapable of so remaining.”

“I’m sorry, Phil,” Fury said, with a softening around his mouth that on him was as good as a grin. “You just look so... pretty. It’s distracting.”

“I will be killing Barton,” Coulson thought, letting no sign of his thoughts show on his face. “I think I have finally found something to make it worth the paperwork. My boss just called me pretty.”

***

Coulson flipped open his computer, typing in the distress code to get the emergency pickup sent, and pulled out his gun to check the clip. He flipped open his suitcase, shot the cards an accusatory glare, and pulled out three more handguns, distributing them under the back of his jacket, in the ankle holster on his right leg, and in the left thigh holster accessible through a hidden flap in the pocket of his tailored slacks. He checked for confirmation on his request for backup and headed out the door.

The climb to the Hawk’s nest was not particularly taxing, but it did take time and planning. Anyone who found a way to creep up on Clint here had to be fairly skilled. Coulson pulled out electronic binoculars, scanning the area for threats and finding none. He checked the line of sight on Natasha’s target, saw limp bodies along the hall, and scanned for the second line. Hmm, nothing. Not good.

Obviously, he had two missing agents, but he was not too worried yet. If anyone could take care of themselves, it was Barton and Romanov. Well, at least, Romanov could. He slipped the binoculars back in his jacket pocket and swung himself over the edge to begin the descent to the ground. Time to play cavalry.

Coulson ran through a series of sneaky plans to gain entrance to the office where he could logically assume his agents were being held or where he could find the necessary information to discover their true location. And then he shrugged, drew a gun in each hand and opted to barge through the front door. 

Ten minutes later, he was standing on a near-fatal bullet wound in the shoulder of a thickly-built man who stared up with bulging eyes and blood-flecked foam around his mouth. 

“Where are the woman and the man who were taken?” he repeated in Italian. The man gibbered at him, so Coulson sighed to indicate boredom and pressed the muzzle of his gun to the man’s temple. “Last chance, bucko,” he said in English. He pressed harder with his heel, and smiled pleasantly.

“Scantinato,” the man hissed. 

“Grazie,” Coulton replied, and then he pulled the trigger.

Cellar meant down, and Coulson went hunting for a stairwell.

***

“So you shot the man in cold blood?” Fury asked, sitting bolt upright and raising both eyebrows.

“Didn’t want him shooting me in the back, sir,” Coulson replied. “Or warning anyone I was coming. But, no, I didn’t shoot him. He fainted when the bullet went past his ear.”

“Damn, you’re cold,” Fury said, slouching down to rest his elbows on his desk. “Easy to forget when you’re, er, already de-briefed.”

“Yes, sir,” Coulson replied, seething inside. “Thank you, sir.”

It would not be a clean death for Barton. Coulson decided to take his time, enjoy the process.

***

Romanov and Barton were tied, side by side, hanging from their wrists, toes barely brushing the cement. There was a fair-sized river of blood streaming from Barton’s bare chest, but Natasha remained clothed, no visible injuries except for some bruising around her left eye and swelling to her bottom lip. They both lifted their heads when Coulson walked in, but he was not looking back. His gun fired four times, and all five guards went down.

“Good to see you, sir,” Natasha said, and Clint grunted his agreement. 

Coulson pulled a knife out the lining of his jacket, slicing through the ropes that bound their hands, one at a time, supporting them until they could stand and move their fingers freely.

“Where is your bow, Agent,” he said to Barton, leaving his arm around the taller man’s waist only a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“Some ugly fuck with a broken nose got it off me, sir,” Clint replied. “Sorry, sir. I would very much like to take a few minutes to find it, if possible.”

“We have two hours until pickup,” Coulson replied. “I think we can spare a few minutes to clean up your mess. Don’t make it habit to be so careless with your gear, however.”

The three of them grinned at each other; they had not had this much fun in months.

It quickly became less enjoyable when they were ducking below a hail of bullets, returning fire with guns plucked off of the dead and dying. Barton’s bow was resting across his knees, but he was out of arrows.

“This equipment is crap, sir,” Clint said, lifting his arm over the edge of the overturned desk and shooting three men with three perfectly-executed blind shots. “Hard to compensate for shoddy workmanship.”

Natasha had a pout of concentration. She went still for a moment, and then she lifted fluidly to her feet to fire off five shots and drop back down in a single motion. “Only four left,” she announced. 

Coulson sighed, reached in his pants for his last gun. He had his back resting against the top of the desk. His chest was bare, having sacrificed his button-up and his t-shirt for bandages to dress wounds on his agents, but his jacket still hung about his shoulders. He had also, for some reason, kept his tie knotted around his neck.

“You look like a deranged stripper,” Natasha told him. “And it’s your turn.”

Coulson pursed his lips, twisted to his knees and sent off six shots.

“Missed him the first time,” he said, standing up and shaking the wrinkles out of the knees of his slacks. “But not the second.”

The trio made their way toward the exit, Coulson in the rear to cover their escape.

***

“So you collected your agents, neutralized the threat, and got out of there,” Fury said. “How the hell did you manage to end up...” he gestured toward the silky purple abomination “like that?”

“Barton,” Coulson answered with a note of “obviously” to his voice.

***

“This was my favorite shirt,” Clint said, plucking at the strips of expensive cotton that were twisted around his bloody mess of a chest. “It made your eyes so blue...”

“Given what happened to my previous of your ‘favorite shirts,’” Coulson told him, pulling his spare out of the suitcase, “as well as that one, I would ask that you please refrain from selecting a new favorite for the foreseeable future.”

Natasha sat at the window, watching the back entrance to the building. 

“Gentlemen,” she said crisply, “I believe we have company.”

“Damn,” Clint growled, lifting himself gingerly from the bed. He dug a spare quiver out of his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go meet them before we have to offer them the hospitality of our room.”

Coulson and Natasha had already reloaded, and they also stood. The three of them exchanged grim looks and turned toward the door.

“This is becoming less fun every second,” Clint said. “Right now, I’d just like a shower.”

“Poor baby,” Natasha said, pushing past him to lead the way. “Would you like a blanket and pacifier, too?”

“Silence on the line, agents,” Coulson told them, bringing up the rear again. He would later have cause to wish he stayed in the rear at all times.

They met resistance in the back hall and worked together like clockwork to bring it down. There was no pause in the firing, reloading, and flying arrows, clearing out a path seemingly without effort. The commline chirped to life, and the extraction team gave the code that indicated they were twenty minutes out and closing. As the trio turned to race back for their belongings, they found themselves faced with an ambush blocking their way to the stairwell.

“I have just the thing, sir,” Clint said, pressing a button to change to a new arrowhead. “Watch your head.” 

Coulson did not move as the arrow went arcing past his ear, the whisper of wind, the susurration of breathing. He did not flinch as the arrowhead detonated, spraying the would-be ambushers with a mist of acid. He did, however, flail like a Muppet when the mist washed back over him. He managed to get his arms over his face, getting only tiny spatters on his chin and forehead. 

***

“Was it a problem with the tech?” Fury asked. “Have you talked to Stark about this?”

“No, Director,” Coulson said. “Someone in a room up the hall opened the door at precisely the wrong moment. They had a window open, and the draft moved the cloud back up the hall. I think this was a case of a bad idea masquerading as a good idea.

“The acid did sufficiently incapacitate the enemy long enough for Agent Romanov to neutralize them, however.” Coulson was always one to give credit where it was due.

“So I see how you lost your suit,” Fury said. “But how did you end up in that?”

***

Coulson stood under the spray of the shower, letting it wash over his open eyes, rinsing and re-rinsing his mouth. His suit was quietly dissolving in the sink, and he struggled valiantly to control his urge to scream at it. Barton had bled all over his own change of shirt. Nothing of Natasha’s would fit him. And even his boxers were burning. Goddamn Stark and Barton. Nothing they were both involved in should ever be released near friendly forces.

“Sir?” Natasha said from the other side of the curtain. “There are not many people in this hotel right now. Most of them don’t have anything that would fit you or that they would spare. But, um, Clint may have found something in the office, left behind by a previous guest.”

“Fine, thank you,” Coulson said. He blinked to remove the mental image of his best shoes with holes that were burrowing toward his socks. “Just leave it there, and I’ll dress in a minute.”

He should have been worried when Natasha just did as he said and then slunk out of the room. Even Clint did not appear in the bathroom while he finished his shower and turned off the water. He pushed open the curtain, grabbed a towel to wipe the water out of his eyes, and then froze.

On the toilet lay a nightgown. Babydoll styling, horrible, bright purple satin with yellow lace trim. It had tags on it, and Coulson wondered briefly how long it had taken the recipient of such a gift to throw it at the giver’s head and stomp out of the hotel to catch a ride home. But the comm unit on the edge of the sink chirped the rendezvous alert, and he figured anything that covered his ass was better than nothing covering his ass. He swung it over his head, pulled off the tags and headed out the door to collect his bags.

There was an awkward moment when Coulson tried to keep his hem down as the helicopter landed and he climbed aboard with the whole crew gaping at him, and then he fished his phone out of his bag to let Fury know the mission had gone to hell, but everything had been comfortably solved. Clint kept tugging at the edge of the nightie, and he was certain Natasha was snapping pictures whenever his back was turned, but, mostly, it was an uneventful flight.

Until Fury asked for an immediate debrief and refused to allow Coulson time to sprint to his office for a change of clothes.

***

“You’ve had one helluva day, Phil,” Fury said to him, pulling out a bottle of whisky and two glasses from his bottom drawer. “Drink before you go?”

“Yes, sir,” Coulson replied. “I would like that.”

Half an hour later, Coulson found himself on the elevator to his office, arms folded over his chest, shoulder blades resting on the back wall. The juniors and paper-pushers who shared the space with him were all wide-eyed and staring, looking anywhere but at the purple and yellow that worked so hard to draw the eye. Coulson was smiling as he whisked off the elevator, bare feet silent on the smooth, cold tile. He grinned all the way to his office.

Inside, he started to reach for the garment bag that held his reserve suit, not nearly as magnificent as the one that was now nothing but a puddle in the sewers of Rome, but he was distracted by the blinking light of urgent new emails. He dropped to his chair, woke the computer with the press of a button, and keyed in his passcode. Forty minutes later, he had forgotten what he was wearing and was busily solving a world security crisis with the press of a few buttons.

 

***

Coulson did not look up as the door swung open and Clint appeared, leaning against the jamb. 

“You know,” Clint said, pushing himself upright and swinging the door closed behind him. He engaged the lock and turned back to the desk before finishing his sentence. “That is your color. Purple looks very good on you.”

Coulson pushed his chair back from the desk, thumbing the hidden button beneath the armrest that disrupted all electronic surveillance around his office. 

“You would know,” Coulson answered softly, his lips curling into a wolfish smile and his hips sinking lower in the seat.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, Phil. Really. I think your suits are doomed in my 'verse.


End file.
